Disintegration
by ilovetvalot
Summary: Written in response to kdzl's March Madness Angst Challenge. It was just one night. Co-written with tonnie2001969.


**Disintegration**

God, what had he done? Looking down his body, he saw her glistening blonde locks sprawled across his chest, her manicured hand resting on the edge of the sheet. Closing his eyes, he mentally groaned, his mind clanging, sending a warning siren screaming through his body. It was one thing to wake up with some nameless woman he'd met in a bar, but not her. Anyone but her. But he knew without looking who laid beside him in his bed.

Jennifer Jareau.

He vaguely remembered her appearance at his door last night after they'd put the case to bed. But he'd already been half through the bottle of Jack Daniels he'd purchased at the liquor store down the street, his senses pleasantly dulled. The Southern whiskey was quite useful for that purpose, and easily obtained. He found himself doing that more and more when he didn't have Jack, deadening the ever present pain with liquor, using anything at hand to eradicate the ghosts that now seemed to dwell in his soul. Whiskey, women...didn't matter. He knew it was the coward's way out. But he no longer gave a damn. A part of him simply just didn't care anymore. It seemed his new philosophy was, "Whatever works." And it was working. Or it had been.

But he'd never meant to take his new mantra to this extreme. Christ, using a colleague's body to scratch an itch. That wasn't him. At least, it never had been before.

Until now.

He'd known she was vulnerable, rumors of her breakup with Lamontagne reaching his ears earlier that week. He'd known when he'd touched his lips to hers that he was breaking every moral and ethical rule he'd ever followed, crossing boundary after boundary without a second glance back. And none of it had mattered. He'd ruthlessly taken what she offered, shoving all thoughts of what was right and wrong into a locked box in his mind. It was crowded in that box, jumbled thoughts competing for dominance. But he never intended on opening it any time soon. Especially after last night.

And now, looking at her serenely slumbering face, he felt the sting of bitter regret. Because as much as he wanted it to, it didn't mean anything to him. She didn't mean anything to him. Her body had sated a momentary urge, a physical hunger. But his heart, now that was a different story. His heart was buried deeply in the cold grave with his wife.

His own callousness astounded him.

Cringing as he watched her stir, he tried to move out of the bed smoothly, shifting her away under the cool sheet. Perhaps he could be gone before she awoke. Save them both the embarrassment of the always dreaded morning after conversation. Reaching for his boxers as he stood, he sighed as he heard her sit up in bed, the squeaky springs trumpeting the coming confrontation.

"You don't have to run, Hotch," JJ said tiredly, sitting up in the bed and holding the thin sheet to her bare breasts as she gathered her thoughts and what was left of her shredded dignity. Staring at the floor for a moment, she added, a sigh in her hoarse voice, "I knew when I took my clothes off exactly what this was and what it would be to you. What it meant to you."

Freezing as her calm words washed over him, he whispered, his eyes glued to the blank wallpapered wall, "And what do you think it meant to me, JJ?"

Looking at the tense bare back of the man she'd spent years secretly loving, JJ smiled sadly, her words intentionally holding no emotion, "Absolutely nothing. And that's okay, Hotch. I knew that before I knocked on your door last night." Dropping the sheet as she slipping her discarded dress back over her head in one swift movement, JJ quickly grabbed her bra and underwear, stuffing them into her purse as she reminded herself that she'd wanted just one night with him. Be careful what you wish for, Jareau, she thought, a moment of bitterness flooding her soul. You just might get it.

Pulling his pants over his hips, Hotch turned just as her hand reached for the door. "I'm sorry, JJ," he said huskily, his voice still gravelly with sleep. Shrugging uselessly, he tried to explain, to get the words out that might salvage what had turned out to be a horrible mistake. "I'm not whole without her. I wish it could be different...but..."

Shaking her head, JJ met his sorrowful eyes. "I'm not sorry," she whispered truthfully, letting her heart speak for those three words. "Now I know. I'll see you on the plane in thirty." Catching his surprised eyes, she stated, her tone professional again, "And, for the record, this never happened."

Watching as the security door clicked softly shut, Hotch sank back to the cheap hotel mattress and dropped his head into his hands. Exactly what he'd wanted, right? An easy out. But he wondered, not for the first time, how many more people he'd hurt before he found a way to live without her.

Because it was beginning to appear that more than one than just he and Haley had paid a heavy price the day his wife had died.


End file.
